Prizes (18 page)

He complied, and before his senses were benumbed enough to appreciate it, was pecked on either cheek.

But this was merely an overture to his twenty-one gun salute. For she then proceeded to recite a florid introduction to her trio of attendants.

“Guys, I’d like you to meet my dearest childhood friend, and probably one of America’s greatest scientific geniuses. And, by coincidence, Sidney Raven’s son. Sandy, this is Harvey Madison, my agent; Ned Gordon,
my business manager; and Matt Humphries, my publicist.”

All three men rose and shook Sandy’s hand with bone-breaking vigor, while Rochelle rushed on to say, “I’m really sorry I can’t ask you to join us, but we’re having a business meeting. My contract’s coming up for renewal and we’re working on a game plan.”

“That’s okay,” Sandy replied, a bit of confidence returning, “I’m with a friend, in any case.”

“Oh, really?” Kim inquired with a hint of genuine curiosity.

“Yes,” Sandy acknowledged proudly. “She’s over there.”

Four pairs of eyes scrutinized Gloria from afar.

“Lovely lady,” Harvey Madison pronounced. “Is she in the business?”

For a split second Sandy thought the agent’s remark was intended to demean his date. “No,” he replied with a tinge of sanctimony, “she’s an art historian. It was nice meeting you, but I have to go back. Please excuse me.

As he moved away, Rochelle called out cheerfully, “Don’t forget to give me a ring before you leave. We’ll have some eats and catch up on old times.”

“Sure, sure,” Sandy mumbled.

He weaved his way along the serpentine route back to his own table and addressed Gloria as he sat down. “Sorry, but she’s an old friend from back East.”

Gloria simply nodded. “You’ve got lipstick smudges on your cheeks.”

Their food arrived then, and the waiter’s bustling enabled Sandy to make a detailed study of Gloria’s face. Apart from a touch of mascara, Gloria did not seem to be wearing any makeup at all, in sharp contrast to Rochelle.

His unexpected encounter with a group of what he imagined to be the “in” crowd had emboldened Sandy.

“Uh, I understand you’re interested in making movies,” he remarked.

“As a matter of fact, I am. I think it’s about time that women got their fair share in this town, don’t you?”

“Well, Barbra Streisand does okay. Don’t you think?”

“But who the hell would want to be an actress?” Gloria sneered. “I have no desire to be gawked at. I’m already working part-time in the Paramount Editing Lab. If I’m good enough, someday you’ll see my name in lights—as a director.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Sandy raised a goblet of the Chablis she had chosen.

Gloria then declared, “Now it’s my turn to toast: ‘May you fall out of love with Kim Tower as soon as possible.’ ”

He was stupefied. “Why on earth did you say that?”

“Because, Sandy, she’s plastic, and you’re the real thing.”

Later that evening at her apartment, after they had made love well into the night, Sandy whispered in a moment of sensual intoxication, “Gloria, what if I told you I think I’m falling in love with you?”

“I would talk you out of it, darling. I’m not nice enough for you either.”

When he pulled the Jag up to his father’s front door, it was nearly four in the morning. Entering the house as quietly as he could, Sandy was surprised to see a streak of light from the study spilling across the carpet.

He peeked into his father’s office and saw the elder Raven, clad in a silk bathrobe, feet up on a chair, piles of scripts on either side, swiftly leafing through what was clearly a scenario.

“Dad?” he whispered.

“Oh, sonny boy, you gave me a start. I didn’t expect you home so early.”

“Do you always stay up this late?” Sandy inquired.

“That’s what you gotta do if you want to get ahead in
the movies, kiddo. In a few minutes the calls’ll start coming in from Spain, where I’m shooting an Italian western. Meanwhile, I took some submissions home to see if there are any worthwhile properties.”

“When do you sleep?”

“What is this,” his father asked good-humoredly, “twenty questions? I should be asking you. You’ve got a strange look on your face, Sandy. Did everything go okay?”

“That depends on how you interpret the data, Dad.”

“Well, let’s get to the important part. Did you enjoy yourself with Gloria?”

“She’s a terrific person. Really bright and—”

“Son, I’m not asking you for a character reference. To mince no bones, did you have a good time horizontally?”

“Are you kidding? Thanks for the fix-up. I hope I can get to see her again before I go back East.”

“You can count on it,” his father answered with enthusiasm. “But how come you’re not beaming from ear to ear?”

Sandy flopped down on the easy chair, then leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, and inquired, “Dad, would you level with me if I asked you a really intimate question?”

The elder Raven was puzzled. “Sure, fire away.”

Sandy gathered up his courage. “Is Rochelle Taubman like Gloria?”

“I don’t understand. You’re talking apples and oranges.”

“No, I’m not—I’m talking about two ambitious girls who are desperate to get to the top in movies.”

“Okay, I get it. Yeah, from that point you might say they’re both oranges.”

“Then does Rochelle have to sleep with anybody her producer tells her to?”

“I’m not her boss,” Sidney replied, in a tone wavering enigmatically between sincerity and evasiveness.

“Come on, Dad, you’re on contract to the studio. I bet everybody at those top tables knows who’s screwing whom and whether it’s for love or … advancement.

“These things are not mutually exclusive, sonny boy. But I still can’t figure out why, after I orchestrated what I hope was the most memorable night of your life, you’re acting like this was the
Caine Mutiny
court-martial.”

“Dad, did you know that she would be at Scandia tonight?”

“Of course not. We don’t ask our players to sign out with their dinner destinations. Anyway, I hope she gave you a warm welcome. I mean, she owes you a lot careerwise.”

Sandy was growing more upset, and asked nervously, “In your estimation, would her debt be as large as a roll in the hay?”

“Oh, at least,” his father replied matter-of-factly.

“Jesus!” Sandy exclaimed, rising to his feet. “Doesn’t anything in your business ever get done without screwing?”

“Listen, Sandy, it’s too late at night to discuss philosophy. Let me just tell you that a certain amount of humping is a useful lubricant that makes the movie machine run smoothly.”

“That’s immoral,” his son complained.

“What is this?” Sidney retorted. “Now, you’re doing a Burt Lancaster in
Elmer Gantry.
”

Without another word Sandy stormed upstairs to his room, tore off his clothes, and fell back onto the bed.

For that evening in the land of impossible dreams, he had seen his own private fantasies shattered. Worse, it was with an arrogant hypocrisy that pretended its skewed morality was the way of the world.

And as he lay there, still feeling the warmth of Gloria’s caresses, Sandy berated himself for not having the guts to bring the conversation to its ultimate conclusion.

He had missed an opportunity that might never occur
again. To ask his father if
he
had slept with Rochelle Taubman.

17
 

Despite his vigorous protestations, Raymond da Costa had been deeply shaken by his heart attack. He could take no comfort from the pious platitudes mouthed by Dr. Gorman or even from reading the articles on which the cardiologist based his optimistic prognosis that, with a healthier lifestyle, he “could live to be a hundred.”

One afternoon as they were walking home from classes, father and daughter stopped in at the university store, where he bought track suits and shoes for both of them. While he chose the least ostentatious for himself, he gave Isabel free rein, and she opted for a slightly bolder outfit emblazoned with
U.C. BERKELEY
.

Thereafter, he would set his alarm for five-thirty
A.M.
and wake Isabel so the two of them could jog inconspicuously on the track at nearby Edwards Field. He was damned if he’d let himself die without seeing his cherished daughter mount the podium in Stockholm.

While rummaging through the Medical Reference Library on his computer database, he had come across an article asserting the theory that regular physical activity could raise a child’s IQ between five and ten percent. Imagine how high that would put his Isabel! He made sure that she never missed a day.

Isabel was painfully stiff during that first week, and was so out of shape that she could not do more than one
lap without slowing down to walk and catch her breath. At last she was hooked and began to feel the high that running brings. It was not long before she could go two miles without stopping.

Yet she never tried to progress beyond this point, because it seemed to be the limit of her father’s ability.

Early one morning several weeks after their exercise routine had begun, Raymond emerged in his track suit to find Isabel seated at the dining table, still in the jeans and sweater she had been wearing the night before.

“Hey,” he said with mock severity, “how come you’re not ready for our pre-Olympic workout?”

She glanced with surprise at her watch and exclaimed “Ohmigod, is it morning already?”

“You mean you haven’t been to bed?”

“No—I got addicted to the fiendish problems in this book. They’re like Cracker Jacks—once you start, you can’t stop. I was so involved that I guess I didn’t notice the time.”

“Really?” Raymond remarked with satisfaction. “For what course?”

“None,” she replied, showing him the cover of J. D. Jackson’s
Electrodynamics.

“But you’re not taking Electricity and Magnetism this term,” Raymond objected. “What’s the rush?”

“It’s just for fun,” she explained. “Karl told me that most of his Ph.D. candidates couldn’t do half the questions, and I was so intrigued that I begged him to lend me his copy.”

“Who’s Karl?” her father asked suspiciously.

“Professor Pracht, my new adviser.”

“Since when?” Raymond demanded uneasily. “What happened to Tanner?”

“Well, Elliott’s going on his last sabbatical next year,” Isabel replied matter-of-factly. “And, as he put it, he wanted to leave me with a good baby-sitter.”

The chairman’s phraseology did not reassure Raymond
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” he asked, trying to mask his apprehension.

“Well, when I got home last night, you were speaking to that reporter from Sacramento, and then your first pupil came. Besides, it’s hardly headline news.”

“That’s not the point,” Raymond objected. “He’s much too young. I mean—”

She laughed. “Dad, I’m all of fourteen, and Karl’s nearly your age. Besides, he’s really with it. He’s a specialist in particle physics.”

Raymond forced himself to smile and then prudently changed the subject. “Coming to work out?”

“I don’t think I could go one lap.” She yawned. “I’ll have breakfast ready when you come back.”

“Are you sure you’re not going to use the time sitting over another of those problems?”

“Well,” she grinned, “I might—if you run long enough.”

Raymond nodded and left for his workout.

Jogging seemed especially difficult for Raymond today. Perhaps, he thought, because he was still in a state of shock. The sight of Isabel playing with that text had been traumatic, for though he had never confided this secret even to Muriel, electromagnetic theory was one of the fields he had flunked on his own Ph.D. qualifying exam.

He himself had deliberately ignored Jackson’s book, knowing the problems at the ends of each chapter were far beyond his abilities.

The moment Ray had been dreading for years had finally arrived. His daughter had transcended the limits of his own intellectual capacity. How could he now justify his role as her mentor?

Ray trembled at the prospect of his daughter forming a relationship with a greater mind than his.

In a strange way, it was not unlike a mother having to let go of her child at the nursery school gate.

Except that Raymond da Costa was determined to postpone
their
separation as long as possible.

“I object, Professor Tanner. I most strenuously object.”

“On what grounds?” asked the grandfatherly chairman of the Physics Department.

“Well, with due respect, compared to some of the world-class scientists on your faculty, Pracht’s too young and inexperienced.”

The chairman was bemused. “Surely I don’t have to tell you, Mr. da Costa, that math and physics prodigies bloom early.”

“Well, maybe. But, to put it mildly, my daughter is a rather special student, wouldn’t you agree?”

Tanner leaned across his desk for emphasis. “Mr. da Costa, all of us share the same respect for Isabel’s intellectual gifts—and that’s precisely why I thought Pracht would be the perfect choice. He’s so well-regarded that we almost lost him twice last year, and only kept him by giving him the highest raise we could. But what’s most important, he and Isabel get on like a house afire.”